Scan barcode
aegagrus's reviews
58 reviews
The Invisible Heart: Economics and Family Values by Nancy Folbre
3.25
Words like "clear", "intuitive", or "lucid" often lie at the upper limit of credible praise due to an economist's writing. Nancy Folbre's writing is more than just lucid. It's compelling, warm, and thoroughly hers. Folbre is also particularly good at weaving dissociated strands of information into very tight conceptual packages and models. Even if all of the facts in question are already known, the elegance with which she fits them together may be novel.
The Invisible Heart effectively demonstrates the practical and theoretical problems which arise when we try to fit care work into a market. For instance, ingrained social norms and the "prisoner of love" effect change market participants' preferences over time. It's difficult to objectively assess the "quality" of care work, or its diffuse effects. Caring requires person-specific non-standardized knowledge. Labor power is systematically limited by institutions like the family, or by the difficulty of actions such as strikes.
Turning to the history of welfare provision and care organization, The Invisible Heart lags somewhat. Some of the basic stories are a little too well known at this point: the inadequacies of GDP, the regressive nature of benefits, tax credits, and school funding. There are some valuable insights into the specifically gendered nature of these dynamics (e.g. issues with the ways in which child support is enforced, issues with taxing married couples' income jointly). However, it often seems as though these insights are given short shrift in favor of a more general history which is not particularly unique to this book.
In the book's closing sections, Folbre's stances are quite explicit. Globalization, marketization, and changes in social norms have created deep inadequacies in communal sentiment and care work. Neither "patriotic protectionism", which seeks to reverse globalization, nor social conservatism which would bolster the supply of care work by increasing the degree to which women are artificially pressured to specialize in it are real solutions. You cannot just increase compensation for care labor (in ways which might trap women in those sectors), nor can you just strive towards more equitable divisions of labor (which doesn't address care work's systematic undervaluing). You have to do both. For Folbre, this means a shift towards market socialism, limited social ownership, and a careful mix of tax incentives and state investments oriented towards a more robust and equitable care sector.
It is worth noting that this is a rather dated book at this point, some of the specifics rendered inaccurate by changes in the landscape of social services. It's also a book which is sometimes unfocused, which devotes too much time to rehashing general arguments at the expense of providing specific insights, and which is not always charitable in the models of conventional economic thinking with which it takes issue. However, The Invisible Heart is a strong resource for improving theoretical and practical understandings of care work's economic position, presents a number of useful policy insights, and is an enjoyable and accessible basis for engagement with Folbre's eminent work which has carried on from the publication of this book to the present.
The Invisible Heart effectively demonstrates the practical and theoretical problems which arise when we try to fit care work into a market. For instance, ingrained social norms and the "prisoner of love" effect change market participants' preferences over time. It's difficult to objectively assess the "quality" of care work, or its diffuse effects. Caring requires person-specific non-standardized knowledge. Labor power is systematically limited by institutions like the family, or by the difficulty of actions such as strikes.
Turning to the history of welfare provision and care organization, The Invisible Heart lags somewhat. Some of the basic stories are a little too well known at this point: the inadequacies of GDP, the regressive nature of benefits, tax credits, and school funding. There are some valuable insights into the specifically gendered nature of these dynamics (e.g. issues with the ways in which child support is enforced, issues with taxing married couples' income jointly). However, it often seems as though these insights are given short shrift in favor of a more general history which is not particularly unique to this book.
In the book's closing sections, Folbre's stances are quite explicit. Globalization, marketization, and changes in social norms have created deep inadequacies in communal sentiment and care work. Neither "patriotic protectionism", which seeks to reverse globalization, nor social conservatism which would bolster the supply of care work by increasing the degree to which women are artificially pressured to specialize in it are real solutions. You cannot just increase compensation for care labor (in ways which might trap women in those sectors), nor can you just strive towards more equitable divisions of labor (which doesn't address care work's systematic undervaluing). You have to do both. For Folbre, this means a shift towards market socialism, limited social ownership, and a careful mix of tax incentives and state investments oriented towards a more robust and equitable care sector.
It is worth noting that this is a rather dated book at this point, some of the specifics rendered inaccurate by changes in the landscape of social services. It's also a book which is sometimes unfocused, which devotes too much time to rehashing general arguments at the expense of providing specific insights, and which is not always charitable in the models of conventional economic thinking with which it takes issue. However, The Invisible Heart is a strong resource for improving theoretical and practical understandings of care work's economic position, presents a number of useful policy insights, and is an enjoyable and accessible basis for engagement with Folbre's eminent work which has carried on from the publication of this book to the present.
Aurora Leigh by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
3.5
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's language in Aurora Leigh is very beautiful, full of elaborate Victorian similes, lush description, and clever dialogue. Some modern readers might find the language excessive and indulgent. This was not my reaction. EBB's poetic register is very much of its time and it serves her characters well. These are people who obfuscate and conceal not by tight-lipped caution but by overflowing verbosity.
I was struck by how unreliable of a narrator Aurora is. It's not so much that she's lying to the narrator; she's lying to herself, and a great amount of cognitive dissonance makes its way into the story she's telling. At several points she acts in ways which will self-evidently produce results contrary to her purported (and probably genuine) intent. The characters with whom Aurora interacts are similarly unreliable in their dealings with her, all of which makes for a work which is sometimes thematically ambiguous. It is not always clear how to read EBB's depictions of aristocratic society, socialist idealism, or literary culture. These depictions are plainly satirical in certain ways, but it is not always clear in which direction the satire is aimed.
The clearest unifying thread is that the three major characters -- Aurora, Romney, and Marian -- all struggle with a tension between some transcendent purpose (respectively art, social reform, and an idealized love) and the concrete relationships in which they find themselves. While we cannot know exactly what EBB made of this tension, we can be sure that she wrestled with it. She was a poet, inclined towards the transcendent, and also a woman, socialized towards the domestic and relational. Cognitive dissonance or no, Aurora's reflections on art, gender, and love offer a fascinating glimpse into some of the conflicting loyalties EBB lived with (it is this sense in which Aurora Leigh is "semi-autobiographical").
The story's ending is likely unsatisfying to many readers today, and one wonders whether EBB was simply offering a concession to the expectations of her readers. Even then, the ending is "saved" somewhat by the fact that the reader has by this point learned to be wary of taking the story they are being told at face value.
I was struck by how unreliable of a narrator Aurora is. It's not so much that she's lying to the narrator; she's lying to herself, and a great amount of cognitive dissonance makes its way into the story she's telling. At several points she acts in ways which will self-evidently produce results contrary to her purported (and probably genuine) intent. The characters with whom Aurora interacts are similarly unreliable in their dealings with her, all of which makes for a work which is sometimes thematically ambiguous. It is not always clear how to read EBB's depictions of aristocratic society, socialist idealism, or literary culture. These depictions are plainly satirical in certain ways, but it is not always clear in which direction the satire is aimed.
The clearest unifying thread is that the three major characters -- Aurora, Romney, and Marian -- all struggle with a tension between some transcendent purpose (respectively art, social reform, and an idealized love) and the concrete relationships in which they find themselves. While we cannot know exactly what EBB made of this tension, we can be sure that she wrestled with it. She was a poet, inclined towards the transcendent, and also a woman, socialized towards the domestic and relational. Cognitive dissonance or no, Aurora's reflections on art, gender, and love offer a fascinating glimpse into some of the conflicting loyalties EBB lived with (it is this sense in which Aurora Leigh is "semi-autobiographical").
The story's ending is likely unsatisfying to many readers today, and one wonders whether EBB was simply offering a concession to the expectations of her readers. Even then, the ending is "saved" somewhat by the fact that the reader has by this point learned to be wary of taking the story they are being told at face value.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Classism and Death of parent
Dust in the Blood: A Theology of Life with Depression by Jessica Coblentz
3.5
Dust in the Blood consists of two sections. In the first, Coblentz grounds her discussion of chronic depression by using first-person narratives (including her own) and Heideggerian phenomenology to describe depression in terms of Unheimlichkeit. Coblentz describes the religious angst that can be occasioned by this sense of living in a world mysteriously denuded of value and meaning and provides some critiques of common Christian theodicies that rationalize depressive suffering as either penance or as instruction. Interestingly, she observes that these theodicies betray a mindset strikingly similar to the post-Enlightenment secular mindset, obsessed with "proving" some particular etiological account of depression. Following Karen Killby, Coblentz goes on to argue that regardless of how right or wrong such explanations might be, their essential flaw concerns positionality; it may be appropriate for a depression sufferer to find some particular meaning in their condition, but it is inappropriate for someone else to try to impose such a meaning.
In the second part of her book, Coblentz attempts to provide "theological resources" which may or may not be useful to depression sufferers seeking ways to autonomously understand their experiences. Specifically, she is concerned with the "sacred possibility of meaningless suffering", an interpretative avenue she feels is neglected in much of Christian discourse. She examines Hagar's wilderness experience in Genesis 21, arguing that the biblical narrative emphasizes God's attention and presence to Hagar's dislocation and suffering without necessarily affirming that her suffering was justified. Coblentz's theological reflection concludes with an application of Delores Williams' soteriological thought to the notion that, for sufferers of chronic depression, daily adaptation and "small victories" may be deeply salvific.
Coblentz is to be commended for the seriousness with which she reflects on her role as a theologian, making clear repeatedly that the reflections she provides in part two may or may not be useful to any given person and are not to be imposed from the outside. She is also to be commended for the intensity with which she rejects a prevailing theological landscape which often leads the Church to ignore or downplay earthly suffering rather than committing to accompaniment of and allyship with those who suffer.
Coblentz's argumentation is not always completely satisfying. For one thing, the critiques she levels against prevailing theodicies are of necessity far from conclusive. As she is more interested in critiquing the act of theodicy itself, with Killby, this shortcoming is not a significant blow. More damagingly, her discussion of Hagar in the wilderness sometimes feels superficial. This too makes a lot of sense; she's working with what amounts to a scriptural footnote and is trying to keep her reflections broad enough to remain useful across different metaphysical accounts of God. One also gets the sense that she is concerned that further editorializing may risk imposing meaning on sufferers in the way she rejects. As I see it, however, if Coblentz wants to provide elective "theological resources", it needn't be a betrayal to sketch out these resources a little further.
Overall, Dust in the Blood is an inventive and compelling book, grounded in and strengthened by its reliance on first-person depression narratives. This is a book which will be useful to many Christians suffering with their own depression or accompanying depressed loved ones. Though Coblentz's reference points are learned ones, her book does not assume any background in medical or philosophical treatments of depression. Some background in Christian theological terms will be helpful but is not requisite.
In the second part of her book, Coblentz attempts to provide "theological resources" which may or may not be useful to depression sufferers seeking ways to autonomously understand their experiences. Specifically, she is concerned with the "sacred possibility of meaningless suffering", an interpretative avenue she feels is neglected in much of Christian discourse. She examines Hagar's wilderness experience in Genesis 21, arguing that the biblical narrative emphasizes God's attention and presence to Hagar's dislocation and suffering without necessarily affirming that her suffering was justified. Coblentz's theological reflection concludes with an application of Delores Williams' soteriological thought to the notion that, for sufferers of chronic depression, daily adaptation and "small victories" may be deeply salvific.
Coblentz is to be commended for the seriousness with which she reflects on her role as a theologian, making clear repeatedly that the reflections she provides in part two may or may not be useful to any given person and are not to be imposed from the outside. She is also to be commended for the intensity with which she rejects a prevailing theological landscape which often leads the Church to ignore or downplay earthly suffering rather than committing to accompaniment of and allyship with those who suffer.
Coblentz's argumentation is not always completely satisfying. For one thing, the critiques she levels against prevailing theodicies are of necessity far from conclusive. As she is more interested in critiquing the act of theodicy itself, with Killby, this shortcoming is not a significant blow. More damagingly, her discussion of Hagar in the wilderness sometimes feels superficial. This too makes a lot of sense; she's working with what amounts to a scriptural footnote and is trying to keep her reflections broad enough to remain useful across different metaphysical accounts of God. One also gets the sense that she is concerned that further editorializing may risk imposing meaning on sufferers in the way she rejects. As I see it, however, if Coblentz wants to provide elective "theological resources", it needn't be a betrayal to sketch out these resources a little further.
Overall, Dust in the Blood is an inventive and compelling book, grounded in and strengthened by its reliance on first-person depression narratives. This is a book which will be useful to many Christians suffering with their own depression or accompanying depressed loved ones. Though Coblentz's reference points are learned ones, her book does not assume any background in medical or philosophical treatments of depression. Some background in Christian theological terms will be helpful but is not requisite.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Mental illness
Moderate: Racism, Abandonment, and Suicide
Empire of Pain: The Secret History of the Sackler Dynasty by Patrick Radden Keefe
3.25
Empire of Pain is a smart and thorough chronicle of three generations of the notorious Sackler family. Radden Keefe may write in the dramatized language commonly found in tales of “true crime”, but his credibility is bolstered by the years he’s put into this story and the vast quantity of source material he’s able to cite. His book does many things well. It provides a fascinating case study of the ways in which ill-gotten wealth can change a family over time, altering each generation’s proclivities and character. It effectively demystifies relatively arcane fields like pharmaceutical advertising and bankruptcy law. It doesn’t spare those peripherally implicated in the Sackler saga – well-known political figures from both major parties, doctors, lawyers, consultants, and museum administrators. Most importantly, it elucidates where we stand today, unflinchingly demonstrating the insufficiency of the ways in which the Sacklers have been “held to account”.
For all its thoroughness, Empire of Pain has a fairly narrow focus. Radden Keefe readily admits that his book is not intended to be a broad sociological account of the opioid crisis. At times, this tight focus on the Sacklers leaves the reader with questions. Radden Keefe does a pretty good job separating out the impact of Purdue Pharma from that of other opioid suppliers, citing empirical studies to show the close association between Purdue’s activities and the emergence of the crisis writ large. Purdue was an early and aggressive mover; in ascribing responsibility for the crisis, to start at Purdue is entirely justified. In other instances, though, the centrality of the Sacklers to this narrative may have led Radden Keefe to overstate their centrality – on the birth of medication-based psychiatry, for instance, or even on the ideological battles over how the medical field should approach chronic non-malignant pain (which is not to say that the Sackler’s astroturfing did not have a major impact in this regard).
It is also notable that a full third of the book is spent on the activity of Arthur Sackler, the family patriarch, who was already dead by the time OxyContin was created. The ways in which Arthur shaped the family’s trajectory are certainly relevant, getting the Sacklers started in the worlds of art and philanthropy, passing down an array of corporate structures, and inculcating deeply held ideologies in the succeeding generations. Arthur’s role in creating modern pharmaceutical advertising and his aggressive profiteering off of non-opioid tranquilizers (namely Valium) are also interesting. Nonetheless, too much time is probably spent mythologizing the dynasty’s origins, time which could perhaps have been better spent providing somewhat broader context for later material about the marketing of OxyContin and the ensuing litigation.
Empire of Pain is, all in all, well worth reading. If the reader is seeking to understand the opioid crisis itself, this book is probably not a perfect starting point. If the reader already has some background in the opioid crisis, however, or is primarily interested in a case study of the corrupt abuse of corporate, legal, and political power, Empire of Pain is an excellent choice.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Addiction, Drug abuse, Chronic illness, and Medical content
Moderate: Suicide, Antisemitism, and Injury/Injury detail
The Rings of Saturn by W.G. Sebald
3.75
Merle Rubin, writing in the Wall Street Journal, called The Rings of Saturn "an extraordinary palimpsest". It's an apt metaphor for this series of meditations on decay, decline, and memory. The shoreline is a palimpsest. The mind is a palimpsest. The human project is a palimpsest, always being wiped clean and written over.
Sebald demonstrates great fluency in many different modes of analysis. He is comfortable writing sociology, natural history, literary criticism, biography, travelogue. He is always eloquent. At times I wondered how we were expected to engage with his reflections. Are we to pick out bits of relevance from this erudite catalogue of ideas? Or are the ideas themselves meant to be impermanent -- lapping upon our consciousness before withdrawing into the sea. I was also never quite sure of facticity, but I do not see this as unintentional: I admire Sebald's willingness to hunker down in his extended allusions, and the vivid imagination he brings to each.
I appreciated the strongly ecological dimension to Sebald's conceit, especially because it is not a straightforwardly apocalyptic or political one, as ecological messages today often rightly are. I also appreciated the various devices Sebald seems to use to describe his own task as a writer -- building a matchstick model of the Temple of Jerusalem; toiling away at a loom; compiling a mental museum of invented curiosities. Perhaps the most resonant for me comes early on when Sebald describes the early modern writer Thomas Browne as a master of using exquisite prose to elevate the reader to a world of fundamental truths beyond those straightforwardly contained in the text. Having read some Browne, I agree. Sebald is gently critical but also admiring of this gambit. He knows it is a double-edged sword; he is keenly aware of its drawbacks. In The Rings of Saturn, he employs it regardless.
Sebald demonstrates great fluency in many different modes of analysis. He is comfortable writing sociology, natural history, literary criticism, biography, travelogue. He is always eloquent. At times I wondered how we were expected to engage with his reflections. Are we to pick out bits of relevance from this erudite catalogue of ideas? Or are the ideas themselves meant to be impermanent -- lapping upon our consciousness before withdrawing into the sea. I was also never quite sure of facticity, but I do not see this as unintentional: I admire Sebald's willingness to hunker down in his extended allusions, and the vivid imagination he brings to each.
I appreciated the strongly ecological dimension to Sebald's conceit, especially because it is not a straightforwardly apocalyptic or political one, as ecological messages today often rightly are. I also appreciated the various devices Sebald seems to use to describe his own task as a writer -- building a matchstick model of the Temple of Jerusalem; toiling away at a loom; compiling a mental museum of invented curiosities. Perhaps the most resonant for me comes early on when Sebald describes the early modern writer Thomas Browne as a master of using exquisite prose to elevate the reader to a world of fundamental truths beyond those straightforwardly contained in the text. Having read some Browne, I agree. Sebald is gently critical but also admiring of this gambit. He knows it is a double-edged sword; he is keenly aware of its drawbacks. In The Rings of Saturn, he employs it regardless.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Blood, Death, Mental illness, Terminal illness, Colonisation, Animal death, Murder, and Chronic illness
Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
3.75
Perhaps surprisingly, I will firstly and foremostly remember Wuthering Heights as a very funny book. Most of its content is delivered in a frame narration, as servant Nelly Dean recounts the history of two local families to Mr. Lockwood, a newcomer. Nelly's narrative voice is constructed extremely skillfully and somewhat cheekily. Her subtle editorializing and sly asides were a consistent highlight, making understated hilarity of human nature, class, and religious attitudes.
The story itself is a tale of manipulation -- most famously Heathcliff's vengeful machinations, but not exclusively. Emily Bronte explores the tragic perversity bred by manipulative relationships, and the heartbreaking alienation in which such relationships often conclude. Throughout all of this, her treatment of child and adolescent characters is particularly notable. Her young characters are not passive objects of manipulation by their elders. They are indeed manipulated in particular ways, and Bronte is deeply sympathetic about this. They are also players with unique agency, and very often the instigating forces moving the story along, for good or for ill.
Wuthering Heights is deservedly a classic. Bronte's highly evocative descriptions of the Yorkshire moors lend a significant gravitas to the work, as do her unflinching depictions of the emotional nadirs in her tragic saga.
Bronte's use of illness (chronic and otherwise) as a strong narrative propellant may feel too neat to the modern reader. It is worth noting that the relationship between physical health and moral/emotional health would have been thought of differently by the Victorian reader (which is perhaps why it is never quite clear whether illness is a cause or an effect). The novel's ending may also come across as an unnecessary concession which detracts from its otherwise unflinching character. This may be so, but if Bronte's ending is a concession to anything, it is in all likelihood nothing more than a concession to the literary environment of her time.
The story itself is a tale of manipulation -- most famously Heathcliff's vengeful machinations, but not exclusively. Emily Bronte explores the tragic perversity bred by manipulative relationships, and the heartbreaking alienation in which such relationships often conclude. Throughout all of this, her treatment of child and adolescent characters is particularly notable. Her young characters are not passive objects of manipulation by their elders. They are indeed manipulated in particular ways, and Bronte is deeply sympathetic about this. They are also players with unique agency, and very often the instigating forces moving the story along, for good or for ill.
Wuthering Heights is deservedly a classic. Bronte's highly evocative descriptions of the Yorkshire moors lend a significant gravitas to the work, as do her unflinching depictions of the emotional nadirs in her tragic saga.
Bronte's use of illness (chronic and otherwise) as a strong narrative propellant may feel too neat to the modern reader. It is worth noting that the relationship between physical health and moral/emotional health would have been thought of differently by the Victorian reader (which is perhaps why it is never quite clear whether illness is a cause or an effect). The novel's ending may also come across as an unnecessary concession which detracts from its otherwise unflinching character. This may be so, but if Bronte's ending is a concession to anything, it is in all likelihood nothing more than a concession to the literary environment of her time.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Alcoholism, Child abuse, Confinement, Death, Injury/Injury detail, and Physical abuse
The Havoc of Choice by Wanjiru Koinange
2.75
The Havoc of Choice is a novel about the violence which followed the Kenyan elections of 2007. Wanjiru Koinange stated that she wanted to tell her story through the eyes of a single family, along with their friends and employees.
There are two particular strengths to this novel. First, the characters are excellently crafted, especially the female characters. All are complete and interesting. Kavata, morally compromised and oblivious to the implications of her privilege. Anne, her independent-minded but fiercely loyal friend. Wanja, her politically-minded daughter. All are flawed, but still easy to root for. The male characters are sometimes harder to read coherent motivations in, especially the political grandee Hon. Muli and Kavata's ambitious husband Ngugi. They are interesting nonetheless. Koinange's dialogue is funny, moving, and does a good job of sticking to character. Second, the descriptions of the havoc itself are very artful, running a gamut of emotions and successfully capturing an increasing disorientation and dread before arriving at heartrending atrocity.
My earliest objection was doubt over the believability of the mechanics of political corruption. I am not, however, in a position to know how these meetings would have unfolded in Kenya ca. 2007, so this did not bother me overmuch. Much more important is the sense in which the book feels disconnected. The first half, about the difficulties political corruption imposes on the psyche and routine of family members and associates, is very interesting. The second half, chronicling the violence itself, is harrowing. The connections between these themes are never given room to grow. The epilogue is brief and rather perfunctory (somewhat unconvincing, to boot). The characters are not given enough time after the violence has died down to reflect on these two realms of their experience. When themed are conveyed, they are sometimes conveyed in an unrealistically on-the-nose way (as when Cheptoo chastises Kavata on the train) Finally, Amani's death sucks a lot of air out of the room, and is so far removed from the characters' previous qualms and tribulations that it hijacks any possibility for a more coherent book . This all being the case, the harrowing violence feels somewhat gratuitous, disconnected from the themes the book had previously been approaching.
The Havoc of Choice may still be well-worth reading, especially for fans of political fiction; some of the political scenes (especially those seen through Wanja's eyes) are fascinating and compelling. Overall, though, I found this book lacking for want of a more thoughtful consistency between its beginning and its climax.
There are two particular strengths to this novel. First, the characters are excellently crafted, especially the female characters. All are complete and interesting. Kavata, morally compromised and oblivious to the implications of her privilege. Anne, her independent-minded but fiercely loyal friend. Wanja, her politically-minded daughter. All are flawed, but still easy to root for. The male characters are sometimes harder to read coherent motivations in, especially the political grandee Hon. Muli and Kavata's ambitious husband Ngugi. They are interesting nonetheless. Koinange's dialogue is funny, moving, and does a good job of sticking to character. Second, the descriptions of the havoc itself are very artful, running a gamut of emotions and successfully capturing an increasing disorientation and dread before arriving at heartrending atrocity.
My earliest objection was doubt over the believability of the mechanics of political corruption. I am not, however, in a position to know how these meetings would have unfolded in Kenya ca. 2007, so this did not bother me overmuch. Much more important is the sense in which the book feels disconnected. The first half, about the difficulties political corruption imposes on the psyche and routine of family members and associates, is very interesting. The second half, chronicling the violence itself, is harrowing. The connections between these themes are never given room to grow. The epilogue is brief and rather perfunctory (somewhat unconvincing, to boot). The characters are not given enough time after the violence has died down to reflect on these two realms of their experience. When themed are conveyed, they are sometimes conveyed in an unrealistically on-the-nose way
The Havoc of Choice may still be well-worth reading, especially for fans of political fiction; some of the political scenes (especially those seen through Wanja's eyes) are fascinating and compelling. Overall, though, I found this book lacking for want of a more thoughtful consistency between its beginning and its climax.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Blood, Car accident, Child death, Gore, Injury/Injury detail, Police brutality, Violence, Hate crime, and Rape
Moderate: Emotional abuse, Vomit, Domestic abuse, Alcoholism, Classism, and Colonisation
Beyond A Boundary by C.L.R. James
4.75
Beyond a Boundary is an engrossing read. Its fluidity and warmth sometimes mask the sophistication of its arguments; one could read it quite often and absorb something distinct each time.
CLR James casts a perceptive eye over the milieu in which he was raised and the subsequent places through which his life took him. He describes the development of his national, racial, political, and ethical consciousness through his interaction with cricket and cricketers, building up from his own experiences a theory about how sport reflects and reifies prevailing values and concerns. Importantly, his theories treat cricket as distinct and special; he is not uncomfortable discussing the aesthetic nature or political function of sports in general, but he is at his most insightful when he draws upon an expert understanding of what makes cricket and cricketers unique. Although this seriousness with which James treats cricket sometimes yields technical passages, the recounting of detail never comes at the expense of the point being made.
There is a bittersweet ambivalence to the book’s closing, stemming from James’ uncertainty whether his reflections on the West Indian cricket that he knew, with all its cultural and political baggage, is relevant to the sport as it existed by the time he was writing. Today, James’ antiquarian quality is one of his most compelling. He was a unique man who came of age in a unique setting, loyal to the literary canon and chivalric values of English public schools, but equally loyal to the colonized, to the African diaspora, to popular culture. CLR James could not exist today. The intellectual sincerity and deep originality evident on every page of Beyond a Boundary are all the more valuable because of it.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Racism
Minor: Violence
Reimagining Christianity and Sexual Diversity in Africa by Ezra Chitando, Adriaan Van Klinken
3.0
Reimagining Christianity and Sexual Diversity in Africa is a useful book primarily in that it provides a digest of first-hand accounts from progressive African theologians, churches, and storytellers, detailing how these actors think and speak about the status of LGBT individuals in African Christianity. This source material is presented matter-of-factly, with limited external commentary. The case studies which are recounted open useful avenues of reflection: the complex relationship between progressive Christianity in the global north & global south; embodiedness and spiritual warfare as elements of the Pentecostal worldview; the application of Imago Dei to diverse communities, rather than to individuals. In general, the section on theologians is the strongest and the section on grassroots church organizing is the weakest, largely reflecting the availability of source material.
Van Klinken and Chitando are honest about some of their book's limitations -- it focuses primarily on homosexuality rather than other LGBT identities, it primarily describes the work of progressive elements of mainline Protestantism in an environment marked most notably by militantly homophobic charismatic evangelicalism, it is very Anglophone-oriented. In the absence of certain types of source material to recount, I would have appreciated somewhat more authorial effort to draw throughlines or advance new interpretations.
Still, the authors provide a valuable service: a lucid and accessible overview of attitudes among progressive Christians as they are expressed on the continent, taking seriously the idea that Christianity is a site of (internal & external) contestation, rather than solely an oppressive edifice or solely a liberatory vehicle.
Van Klinken and Chitando are honest about some of their book's limitations -- it focuses primarily on homosexuality rather than other LGBT identities, it primarily describes the work of progressive elements of mainline Protestantism in an environment marked most notably by militantly homophobic charismatic evangelicalism, it is very Anglophone-oriented. In the absence of certain types of source material to recount, I would have appreciated somewhat more authorial effort to draw throughlines or advance new interpretations.
Still, the authors provide a valuable service: a lucid and accessible overview of attitudes among progressive Christians as they are expressed on the continent, taking seriously the idea that Christianity is a site of (internal & external) contestation, rather than solely an oppressive edifice or solely a liberatory vehicle.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Homophobia and Lesbophobia
Minor: Physical abuse and Suicide
Piranesi by Susanna Clarke
4.5
Piranesi is an exciting mystery which plays out in a uniquely imagined and uniquely rendered physical environment. The titular character is both interesting and likeable; his great curiosity and compassion animate his interactions and tie the different threads of his story together. With the exception of a single episode I found overly abrupt, his gradual development as a character is measured and well-paced. The story's resolution is also well-paced; Clarke avoids the tendency of suspenseful stories of this sort to become overly frenetic and lose some of their subtlety as they approach a finale.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Confinement, Cursing, and Death